


Things That Happen In The Dark

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (sooooorta), (sorta) - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Forced Voyeurism, Gang Rape, Happy Ending, M/M, Not Happy, Past Abuse, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, pussy yondu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:25:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10853004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: An R-rated alternative to the scene where Taserface has Yondu captured on the Ravager ship. They make Kraglin and Groot watch. Not for the faint-hearted.





	Things That Happen In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> **This not only contains SPOILERS FOR GOTG 2, but also RAPE/NON-CON. Be ye warned. If you don't like it, feel free not to read it.**
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> **Yondu just... seemed like he was in a trance during this whole scene. Like he'd completely given up. I wanted to see how far that could be pushed.**
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> ****

“Take the rodent an' shove him in the brig!”

“What about cap'n?”

“What about him?” Spit flecks Taserface's beard. It stretches and snaps between the bristles as he talks, thick as cobwebs. The hand around Yondu's throat shifts to cup his cheek, a mock-tender caress that makes his eyes half-lid in acceptance and defeat.

 “I think we deserve a lil' more fun outta him, don't you boys? And Gef?"

"Yessir?"

"That's _ex-captain,_ to you _._ ”

The Ravagers jeer. The pound of their booted feet echoes from the walls, which curve above them in an industrial scaffold of pipes and wiring. Rocket raises his voice above the racket.

“What the hell? Yondu! Hey, Yondu! Hey, blue – c'mon! Snap out of it man! Fight back; don't let 'em do this -”

Useless. He can kick and claw all he wants, but while he might be able to get the drop on two Ravagers in a forest, exhausted from dodging traps and trekking across unfamiliar terrain, these pirates are on home ground. Even if he wriggled away from the man carrying him, he'd only be caught by the next, or the next; or the next or the next or the next...

There's nothing he can do. But that doesn't mean he ain't trying. Not just for Yondu's sake either – because Groot's still in there.

Taserface proclaimed him too cute to kill, which is a relief. However, while Rocket will admit that he ain't gonna be winning no trophies for parenting any time soon, he knows there's some things a baby tree shouldn't witness.

A crew of murderers and worse, taking out their frustrations on a disbarred captain? That might just be one of 'em.

He's hurled into the cage hard enough to bounce, rolling until he thumps the bars. They're too dense for him to squeeze through. But he can grab them and shake them, as if he has the bodyweight to bend the iron.

It's futile. Rocket refuses to admit it though; he curls up, yanking at the grilling while pushing with his feet.

“Stop! Wait! What's gonna happen? What you gonna do to Udonta?”

The nearest Ravager pauses, long enough to spit. It smacks the bars with a wet and tinny splat. Even at a distance, Rocket can smell the rot, infesting his gums like spacelice in an old blanket.

“What d'you think? We're gonna find out whas in his pants. And then we're gonna fuck it.”

Rocket likes to pretend he doesn't have much in the way of a heart. But there's something caught in his throat, and it feels like it's palpitating, and he doesn't know what else it could be.

“Groot,” he says, lowering his hind legs to the ground. His paws stay wound in the grill, rust sticking to he pads. “Don't make him watch. For flark's sake, he's just a kid.”

The spitting Ravager laughs. He tosses his arm over his buddy's beefy shoulder, other hand groping the crotchpiece of his pants.

“Go cry to Stakar. He's the only one who cares 'bout _children_. Nah, Yondu's gonna get what he's had comin' – and there ain't nothing you, nor any other sod on board, can do 'bout it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

There ain't nothing Kraglin can do about it.

He can only watch, as Yondu's uncuffed, lifted, and turned around on his seat: forced to kneel with his forearms braced against the chairback.

His head lolls loose on his neck, and there's something disturbingly doll-like about the way he moves, compliant but boneless:  as if he'd flop onto the floor if Taserface weren't pinning him.

His implant weeps molten crystal. It's solidified slightly, the crusty trails streaking his forehead orange. His expression, when it swims to Kraglin's, is dazed as if he's got a system full of barbiturates and alcohol.

Kraglin swallows. If he says anything, does anything... It's out the airlock with him, after the rest of his friends.

Oddly, Yondu looks pretty accepting about this whole shebang. The headshot, the mutiny, the chair. He don't kick up no fuss, don't try to whistle, don't even hiss and cuss as Taserface wedges thick fingers between his legs in search of the zip-pull.

Just tips Kraglin the smallest of nods and lets his eyes go blank as a dead man's.

Kraglin remembers an old story, murmured between a captain and a first mate in the depths of the night-cycle. They'd been lying under the pelts, Yondu sprawled over him as if taking up as much space as possible would make him larger than he was. It wasn't a nice story. Had the audience been someone with a weaker stomach (Kraglin being capable of digesting iron lugnuts if they took his fancy) it might've been considered vomit-inducing.

It was a story of Kree slaves, breeding experiments, fuck-rigs and trophy walls and sawn-off crests and _punishment for backtalk._ Right now, Kraglin wonders whether in a small and private part of Yondu's brain, this is a return of things to their natural order.

Kraglin can't bear that.

Nebula's standing nearby – or lounging. Her shoulders are propped on a stack of crates graffitied with sloppy Ravager flames, one foot kicked up, although the tension building in her spine is anything but casual. She may be a daughter of Thanos, but there's a mob of Ravagers hungry for flesh on all sides. Right now it's safer for anyone with penetrable equipment to keep their head down.

Kraglin sidles until their elbows bump.

“Can't you do anything? Can't you stop this?” He remembers too late that he's talking to a galactically renowned sadist. But to her credit, Nebula looks queasy.

“I slaughter men in their droves,” she says, crossing her arms and glowering as Taserface teases open Yondu's zippers, and roars in delight at the soft wet slit. “But I find this conduct distasteful.”

“Stop them then!”

Nebula bares her teeth, still not looking at him. She sneers at the Ravagers instead, who huddle round new captain and old as if they're about to be at the center of a mosh-pit.

“How would you suggest I go about that?”

“You're a daughter of Thanos!”

If hopelessness is an anvil, bearing down on Kraglin's chest, desperation is the anchor chain that drags him up. He catches her bicep, ignoring the terror as her black eyes flick to his.

This woman is dangerous. A slim knife blade of a creature, who could gut him in a second. She could take him. But surely that means she can take Taserface too?

Kraglin sets his wobbling chin. He firms a jaw that's far too used to opening in agreement, nodding along, saying _yes_ to whatever his cap'n commands.

Hell, he's only spoken out against Yondu once. That had been the fuse to this hellish situation, where Taserface's chuckles and the eager whoops of Half-nut and Wretch can't quite drown out the squish of fingers being fed into holes.

Kraglin already knows that he'll be blaming himself for this for the rest of his life. But perhaps, if he can convince Nebula to help...

“You can do it,” he insists. He digs in when she makes to wrench away. There's no give, and little warmth, as if Nebula's arm is a skin facsimile stretched over steel. Does she even feel it? “I know you can.”

Nebula shakes off his grip and finds another wall to glare at.

Yondu doesn't make a sound. Or at least, only small ones. There's the quiet squelch of his slick and the pant of his breath, but he can't help those, and Kraglin can't hear them anyway from where he and Nebula stand. His mind spews recollections like boozy vomit: lazy days sprawled on the captain's bed; bowing between blue thighs to taste him; filling him with fingers, one by one; testing the give of the tight elastic channel. Sighing his name against the underside of his captain's cock until Yondu orders him to hurry it up and boots him in the face when he disobeys.

Kraglin brushes his underlip, tracing the jagged metal behind. He's lost more than a couple in that fashion, and he regrets none of 'em.

What he does regret is not saving his bitching for when he and Yondu were alone.

There are _rules_ about these things. A First Mate is the only man on ship who gets away with questioning his cap'n without being keelhauled, marinaded, or stapled to the front of the galleon as a figurehead. But even so, that questioning is supposed take place in the privacy of the cap'n's quarters. Should the situation be more urgent, Kraglin's expected to entice his captain to a dark corner and suggest alternatives – never criticisms – where no one else can hear.

But three months spent badgering Yondu to pick up Quill's trail, hunt their traitor down, and treat him like he would any other Ravager, resulted in a lot of frustration. Kraglin let it get the better of him. And now cap'n's gonna pay.

Nebula watches him from the corner of her eye. Or at least, Kraglin thinks that's what she's doing. Hard to tell, given those eyes are black as deepspace, no visible pupil. But her voice is intended for him and him alone, pitched at an undertone below the hollering Ravagers, slapping skin, Taserface's grunts.

“It's not your fault.”

Is she a mind-reader? More to the point, why does she care? People like her are only out for themselves. Kraglin knows this, because usually he is one.

“I gotta fix this,” he says. Nebula shakes her head.

“They'll kill you. Then where will your old captain be? Alone on this Titan-damned ship. Best you wait for this to pass, and deliver him to the Kree in one piece.”

It's a rare day when Kraglin quits slouching and pulls himself to his full height. But when he does, it's impressive – in a gangly sort of way.

“I can't just stand here.”

“Yes you can.” Is Nebula younger than him? Older? The cybernetics make it impossible to tell – she could be nineteen or ninety. But regardless of age, there's a wiseness to her words that speaks to experience. “All pain passes, Obfonteri. All pain except death. Don't go chasing yours early. You know the Centaurian better than anyone, correct?”

Kraglin nods.

“Then you know he'll survive this,” Nebula says, with impressive confidence for the woman who shot Yondu in the head in the first place. “You know he's strong. He will survive this, and the Kree after.”

Ask him a day ago whether Yondu could weather any storm the galaxy threw at him, and Kraglin's answer would be different. But now, all he can see of him is his blank blue face.

Or rather, a slice of it – just visible between shoulderpads and flame patches. The Ravagers cluster together, a rabid multi-legged thing, melding into each other, half in and half-out of the shadows.

They're elbowing each other for the best view, running grubby, greedy hands along blue skin then lifting to sniff and lick. It's like watching dogs fight over raw meat.

 

Kraglin's glad he can't see details. He wouldn't be able to tell Yondu was being fucked if it weren't for the way his lashes droop over his unfocused eyes whenever Taserface crushes him to the chair.

But even if the visuals ain't the most stellar, Kraglin can't bear this. He can't take knowing, hearing, smelling what's being done to a man he's fought besides since he took the Flame – much less a man who he's enjoyed in the same way Taserface is now.

And yet, as Nebula reminds him, he must. He dies now? Yondu's sold back to the Kree – or worse, kept as a pet by Taserface himself.

Alternatively, if Kraglin stays lurking in the dark crevices around the room's edge, and bides his time? There's a chance – just a chance – that he can get him out of here.

Maybe that rodent and the lil' tree-thing too. If Yondu no longer leads the Ravagers, there's no better place for him than by the side of the man he raised. Kraglin's a pragmatic person; he accepts that sometimes, an act of heroics is the most sensible course. If the rodent and the lil' tree-thing give Yondu a bargaining chip or put Peter in his debt, saving them is definitely worth the risk.

However, there's one factor that neither he, Taserface, Yondu nor Nebula have taken into account. The lil' tree-thing itself.

Does it understand what it's seeing? It looks kinda like a baby – or at least, it's a helluva lot smaller than it was last time Kraglin saw it, before the battle of Xandar. But Kraglin ain't in the habit of logging age identifiers for every listed galactic species. As with Nebula, there's no way to tell.

Groot has been rattling the bars of his birdcage since Taserface first hoisted Yondu up by the hips and arranged him at a fuckable height. And now, as Taserface is egged on by the growls of his men, thrusting hard enough to make Yondu's nails shriek on the metal, Groot _screams._

 Kraglin's the only one who notices. Which means he's also the only one who sees the sudden growth spurt.

The twig's limbs _stretch,_ bark flaking around green shoots. A tendril snags Half-nut's neck, throttling it as he paws between his ex-captain's thighs. Then, before he can work out what's garotting him, Groot yanks him away and flings him headfirst into the wall.

“I am Groot!”

Impressive. Kraglin could applaud. But Taserface is unphased. He bottoms out, barrel-chest heaving, and grinds there, balls slapping Yondu's, until the last of his cum's been milked.

Flopping free of the bruised blue slit, he wipes his cock on the strip of thigh muscle visible through the open zip. When Yondu tries to close his legs, Taserface amends his position with a slap. He rubs until his cum leaks, then presents dirty fingers to be sucked, like a treat to a dog.

For one brilliant moment, Yondu's eyes regain their fire. He _bites._

Both he and Kraglin snarl their disappointment when Taserface yanks his hand away, Yondu's jaws clacking shut on nothing.

“Oh, Blue. You shouldn'ta done that.”

Stepping away from the plinth, Taserface rubs his fingers on the back of Yondu's head, over the busted implant, cum bridging the broken relays and making sparks chitter. He raises his voice until it blares back at him from the mosaic of crusty power cells set into the ceiling.

“Alright, boys! Who's up next?”

“I am Groot! I am Groot! I am Groot!”

In his head, Kraglin's screaming too. He at least has the sense to keep the noise buckled inside him. Taserface registers Groot's squeals, high as a mosquito and about as irritating. He zips up with one hand, the other resting on his pistol hilt. For a moment, Kraglin's convinced he's gonna shoot the tree, 'too cute to kill' be damned.

Then he laughs. It's a big, hearty guffaw, infectious to the Ravagers, who squabble over who gets Yondu next. Cusses, blood, and the occasional chopped-off toe go flying.

Ignoring the melee, Taserface swaggers to the far wall. He hauls the dazed Half-nut to his feet and tosses him back into the fray. Then he stalks to Groot's cage, and smirks at the tree close-range.

“Oh yeah. Yer a tough one, you are – we'll make a lil' Ravager of ya yet.”

Behind him, a winner has been determined. Scrote lines up, hand a white circlet against the blue of Yondu's throat. This time there's no biting. Kraglin knows at a glance that his captain's fallen back into that place, as his cunt throbs against Scrote's barbed tip, and his cock is tweaked by more careless hands than he can count. Stakar stole him from it, three and a half decades ago now. But he'll be sold back there, should Nebula's plan follow through, and then Kraglin'll be of no use to him at all...

Nebula. Where is she? Kraglin spins three-sixty. His ears track the commotion when he looks in the opposite direction, as if his conscience has honed on that point in space and time: Yondu, spread against his old chair with a new dick working into him, lubricated by Taserface's cum and his own helpless slick.

But Nebula? She's nowhere to be seen. Not a slim bionic limb in sight. How can she run away from this, after everything she's done?

Kraglin marches for the door. He ignores the murmur in his head that he's doing the exact same thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time he's seen Nebula off and angled back to the central hangar, the stomp of feet and the creak of the chair have burgeoned into the more familiar roar of a Ravager ruckus. Peeking round the door, Kraglin sees Taserface raised over the crowd, standing on the throne where he'd been screwing his ex-cap'n not an hour before.

He's got one boot propped on its high back, the other on the seat, elevating him a whole foot above the crew. Yondu's coat stretches to bursting around his biceps. He's being cheered on by his cronies as he chugs straight from a bottle.

Upon finishing it Taserface belches, throws the glass to the floor, and bellows for another.

The order reverberates through the crowd like the preliminary rumblings before an earthquake - _“Cap'n wants a drink, fetch him a goddam drink”._ Eventually the Ravagers get themselves in order. They form a drunken conveyer belt, passing bottles back and forth until one meets Taserface's muster.

Once he's made his selection, Taserface wrenches off the cap with his teeth. He spits it to clatter off the tree's head, who stands in a circle of curious redcoats, clad in a made-to-size Ravager jacket. When that gets a reaction – a furious shriek, a flail of tiny fists – he upends the entire bottle, showering Groot in a glugging, booze-stinking waterfall.

The tree _sobs._

Now, Kraglin ain't got nothing against bullying the weak. That'd go against the grain of being a space pirate. Hell, he picked on Quill plenty of times, back when the kid was small enough for him to slap about and Kraglin was immature and vindictive enough to be jealous of him for stealing his cap'n's attention.

But something about the tree's wails, its pathetic attempts to fight that only make the Ravagers laugh harder, the way it slips in the spirits and falls on its lil' bottom... Why, if Kraglin had a soft bone in his body, that sound'd be worming into the marrow.

But Groot's providing a distraction. And that's exactly what Kraglin needs.

He sneaks around the edge of the room, skulking from shadow to shadow, avoiding all eye contact and shaking off the boisterous fist-bumps and shoulder-slaps and drunken arms that sling around his waist. Drunk Ravagers are handsy Ravagers, and by the time Kraglin reaches the far blast-doors he's grouchy, disconcertingly sticky, and more worried about his captain than ever.

“Hey,” slurs Half-not, wobbling up to him, tankard in hand and leer on face. There's a bruise eating up his left eye and most of his nose from where he'd been thrown into the wall, and another just starting to blossom in the opposite socket. “Where you off to, Kraggles?”

He doesn't wait for Kraglin to reply. Instead, he hooks an arm through his (almost _companionably,_ as if he thinks they're _friends_ ) and angles him so they're looking at the chair.

Kraglin's glad it's populated only by Taserface. He doesn't know what he'd have done if they'd left Yondu there for the party with his ankles locked to the chairarm-cuffs, dripping with seed and spread for anyone who wanted him.

The only sign of what's occurred is the puddle. That's smeared and off-white, tinted blue with Centaurian blood, and Kraglin can't stop looking at it.

“Don't tell me yer headin' off for a fuck,” Half-nut purrs. He leans in, conspiratorial, close enough for Kraglin to smell putrefaction on his breath. “I'd use his ass. S'tighter, an' all.” He wiggles his fingers, winking so overtly that it looks like he's having a stroke. “Got a bit loose after takin' two together in the cunny, if ya get my drift...”

Kraglin socks him in the face.

Luckily, drunk Ravagers also love to brawl.

Kraglin shoves Half-nut, sending him careering into Narblik, who kicks him in the goolies and tips him backwards onto Wretch, who shoves him back at Narblik, who tosses his mug of industrial-grade bilge cleaner at Wretch, which glances from his ear but bounces off at an angle into Urzu, who panics and tosses his drink in the air, which splashes all over Scrote, who starts flailing wildly at everything within punching distance.

All in all, it's easy for Kraglin to creep to the exit. By the time Half-nut goes wailing to Taserface – _Obfonteri started it, Obfonteri did, I swear –_ Kraglin's long gone. And as no one else had registered his presence long enough for it to leave an impression, common consensus is that Half-nut is three-quarters of the way to a drunken stupor, and hallucinated the entire thing.

Kraglin reaches the comms room unmolested – or as unmolested as one can be, after a Ravager party.

Once there, he scrolls through the camera feeds until he locates the brig. A crackly black-and-white image is trapped between the two panes of glass. It shows Yondu in his underjacket and pants, zipped up over the mess, slumped in the corner of his cage.

The rodent is mirroring him at a calculated distance. Even without sound, Kraglin can tell they're talking. Plotting, more like.

His chest tightens up again, although he can't fathom why _._ After all, Nebula was right.

Cap'n's gonna be fine. And he doesn't need Kraglin to make that happen.

Heck, why would he ever need him again? Kraglin stood by and watched as Nebula shot Yondu in the head. He stood by and watched Taserface rape him.

Kraglin doesn't _deserve_ to help, because then Yondu might do something really stupid _,_ like _forgive him._

But while Yondu doesn't need his help, someone else might.

First time the tree scampers past, dragging a pair of underwear from the laundry pile that looks as if it might've only been worn for three months solid (impressive, by Yondu's standards) Kraglin is amused.

The second time, watching Groot truss the writhing skrank in his tendrils, he is moreso.

The third time, with the desk, he's starting to suspect that something is afoot.

The pieces click into place as Groot abseils onto Yondu's old bed – the bed he and Kraglin shared, three nights out of seven, now populated by Taserface and whatever other Ravagers had been drunk enough to risk falling asleep besides him.

He's looking for something. Something specific. Something that might help his rodent-friend and Yondu escape...

Well. The answer's obvious, ain't it? Kraglin's the only man on board who knows about Yondu's occasional bouts of insomnia, much less his favored means of keeping his hands busy during them.

It's ugly and patchwork compared to the implant Nebula had broken. No fine-crafted Kree technology here; nosiree.

Yondu's prototype is built from yaka chunks sawn into shape. They'd been sourced from market stalls, engine components, even the Collector himself – pure ore where Yondu can find it, crude alloys where he can't. It's a convex curve of metal, molded to the round of Yondu's skull.

And if Groot keeps going, he'll walk right past it.

Kraglin clears his throat – quietly, so as not to wake Narblik, who sucks his thumb an inch from Kraglin's boot.

"That ain't it,” he says when the twig makes a beeline for the sweeties.

Groot turns. He looks profoundly untrusting. Is Kraglin a friend? An enemy? The tyke has no way of knowing.

So Kraglin does his best to smile – remembering at the last moment to keep his lips plastered over his teeth. (He's seen what they look like in the shaving glass. He'd rather not give the twig more lasting trauma than he's already acquired.)

He holds up his hands, showing he's unarmed, and points to the rust-and-gold flame that's branded on his cap'n's bedside cabinet.

“That one. Go on. I'll help ya carry it, if you want.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> **For those of you who know about my fabled Unpublished Fic Vault... This is the sort of thing that usually goes in it.**
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> **I love comments! I don't love hate. Keep it to yourself kthx**
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> ****


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